Fall for Me

by Jc Emery

  Jack eyes the trash on the ground and lets out a heavy sigh. I relax my stance a little bit and look at everything I pulled out of the truck.

  “Damn it.” I crouch down and grab the empty diet ginger ale bottle. Jack follows, and we collect the remainder of the trash and toss it in the nearest receptacle.

  “I’ll make sure the guys clean up before end of shift,” Jack says.

  I fight against my mood to thank him, but it doesn’t do any good. The asshole wins out. I manage a grunt as we walk through the garage bay and up the stairs. We pass the second floor, which houses the living areas for those on shift, and head up to the third floor where the administrative quarters are.

  The long central hall on the third floor is well-lit with all doors closed except for the conference room door, which is wide open at the very end. Inside, it looks like Jack and I are the last to arrive. Somebody had the forethought to put on a pot of coffee, which I’m grateful for. My shift is coming to an end soon, and I’m beat. The truck needed a tune-up and an oil change, and Smokey, the firehouse’s cat, had a dirty-ass litter box that nobody else has cleaned in the last few days. Then there was the mess in the truck. As usual, I’ve spent my entire shift fixing things and solving problems, and yet I can’t find a way around the biggest problem I have—Melanie.

  Since the Heroes in Action event, Royal and Melanie have been attached at the hip. The beautiful, crazy blonde I met that night has a killer sense of humor, a kindness that astounds me, and a strange relationship with honesty that I’m still sorting out. She is at once direct and evasive, and of fucking course, it all just messes with my head. She was hot the night I met her. Crazy, beautiful, and witty. But now that I’m getting to know her, it’s more than that. She’s more than that.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee—black with more sugar than is necessary—and suck it down. The hot liquid burns my throat upon its descent, but it’ll be worth it once the caffeine does its job. I take a look around and find the Chief at the front of the room writing on the dirty whiteboard. In bold, black lettering he writes THE COLLECTOR with a line through it to signify that the arsonist/kidnapper the papers have dubbed the Collector has been caught.

  My eyes dart around the room, wondering who else has noticed what the Chief is doing. It’s Hennessey who notices first. He slaps the table in front of him and jumps out of his seat as he shouts excitedly. The rest of the house joins in, happily cheering about the capture of the Collector—the sick bastard who held those women captive that Jack got the award for saving. He was still at large at the time of the event, but since big brother made the papers, the entire NYPD stepped up their game to find the fucker. It’s about time, too. We can put out the fucking fires he starts, but it’s better for everyone if the cops can do their job and lock these guys up so they can’t keep putting the entire city at risk.

  “All right, calm down,” the Chief says. He throws his hands in the air and laughs heartedly. He keeps on urging the buzz in the room to quiet down, but it takes a while. We’re all pretty tired and ready to head home at shift change, which makes us restless. Well, most of us. I’m just fucking exhausted. I’ll tell Jack I’m happy for him later. The Chief drones on and on about shift changes, reminders to follow protocol, and the importance of safety first. Roger Delgado is a good guy, but he’s the chattiest chief we’ve had. When he’s finally done, he excuses us to go back to what we were doing. I make my way downstairs to the lounge area and lay down on the couch in the center of the room. Hennessey and Luke, our cousin and one of the house’s lieutenants, follows along with a few other guys.

  I’ve done everything I’ve needed to do this shift, so I take a much-needed time-out before I’m on house watch. Normally I don’t despise house watch that much. It’s pretty chill, getting to sit at the front desk and shoot the shit with folks. We’d normally have a proby or a volunteer do it, but we’re short on both. On a good day, a couple badge bunnies will stop by and break up the monotony of the position. Bonus points if they’re tourists.

  The guys chatter about random shit that’s happened during shift. I tune them out as best I can and finally feel myself slipping out of my foul mood when Smokey jumps onto the couch and curls up on my stomach. I love this little dude. I must drift off quickly, because I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until I’m suddenly awake and totally disoriented. Smokey jumps off my stomach and onto the back of the couch, then disappears. I blink rapidly, unsure that I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.

  Across the lounge is Melanie. She’s got a casual outfit of jean shorts and a fitted tank with a pair of Converse and a large flat white box in her arms. Her curvy frame fills out her clothes nicely. Too nicely and too much skin for her to be hanging out with the assholes here.

  Hennessey is practically standing on top of her and reaching for the white box. She pulls it away and laughs. The sound goes straight to my gut, so familiar and comfortable that I almost know it the way I know the rhythmic beating of my own heart. She laughs a lot and smiles even more. Royal’s had her at Mom and Dad’s house five or six times in the two months since they’ve met, and every time she’s there, I find myself looking for a reason to drop in. I finally gave up the excuses and just admitted to myself that I want to see her.

  Her eyes land on me, and her smile brightens. She shoves her way past Hennessey, tips her chin up at him, and narrows her eyes. I sit up quickly and move to one end of the couch. She weaves around the recliner and plops down next to me. She grins with her pearly white teeth on full display and pats the top of the box.

  “Guess what I have?”

  Even with how fucking cute she is, my mood is still shit.

  “Antidepressants?” I ask and tilt my head to read the red stamp on the corner of the box top. I suck in a quick breath, now suddenly excited by the familiar little cannoli-shape and the words Abruzzo's Panifico in a dull red ink.

  “Better,” she says and swats at Hennessey, who reaches for the box.

  “You went to Abruzzo’s?” My words come out reverent. It’s like I’m a kid all over again and Mom’s taking us to Abruzzo’s after church on Sunday because the five of us managed to be good during Mass. It was always something special because we were rarely good enough to earn a trip to Abruzzo’s.

  “We got cannoli!” Hennessey shouts, and in a matter of moments, most of the house is charging toward us with a level of enthusiasm that should have Melanie curling in on herself. But she doesn’t. The crazy woman perks up and smiles even brighter at the sight of the ten or so men descending upon her.

  “Wow.” She turns away from the heathens and looks me squarely in the eye while gripping the box like her life depends on it. “Forget online dating. Bring cannolis to a firehouse and it’s like Christmas morning for a single chick.”

  “You don’t want to date any of these guys, Melanie.” I’m being formal, and I don’t give a fuck. I like her enough to be annoyed by her mention of dating one of these dudes, but I know my place enough to not push it too hard. Plus, she’s still gripping that box of cannoli and not giving ’em up. I know better than to piss off a woman in possession of pastries.

  And knives.

  Never piss of a woman with knives.

  Jack slips through the crowd and, just as I expect him to, crouches down to her level and gives her his best smile. “Thanks for bringing these. We all really appreciate it.”

  Melanie smiles, still enjoying being the center of attention, and lifts the lid of the box, grabs two cannolis, and then gestures for Jack to take the box. “You’re more than welcome.”

  Once the box of cannolis are on the move, so are the guys, and I’m left alone with the beautiful woman hoarding more than her fair share of the cannolis.

  “You gonna share?” I point at the pastries in her hands. We’re in that strange place between friends and acquaintances with a dash of sexual tension thrown in for good measure.

  “Maybe.”

  “List your demands,” I say with a smirk. She
bites at her bottom lip as a blush rises to her cheeks. Her sudden shyness only encourages me. I like her like this. It’s not often that I’ve seen Melanie be anything but self-assured.

  “One,” she says, finding her confidence, “stop calling me Melanie. I prefer Mel. And two, party at my parents’ beach house next weekend. I already checked the schedule, and you and Hennessey are both off, so don’t be lame, mmkay?”

  “You checked our schedules?”

  She makes a dismissive sound and teases me with the cannolis by taking a bite out of one and smiling as she licks off the cream that’s collected on her lips. I’ve never been jealous of a pastry until now. Melanie fucking Kincaid and her goddamn cannolis are going to drive me out of my mind.

  “Your mom keeps everyone’s schedules posted on her fridge. Jack already apologized for not being able to make it. Apparently he’s got a Bee Scout dance to attend,” Melanie says. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to agree to go to this thing, but if it gets me more time with her . . .

  “Ah, Bee Scouts. His date would never forgive him if he stood her up,” I say in reference to Jack’s six-year-old daughter. “Well, I’m not going to leave you alone with H, so I’m game.”

  “Awesome,” she says and finally gives up the cannoli she hasn’t half eaten. Having been teased with the cannoli for far too long, I end up eating it in two bites. Mel is still working through the final bites of hers a few minutes later. She’s the slowest eater ever.

  “Hey, Kincaid,” the Chief barks from across the room. Mel turns and smiles at him. He lifts a cannoli in the air and gives her a nod. “Good work. You start Monday.”

  Mel gives the Chief a thumbs-up and grins with her mouth full. Christ, that’s cute. Mel being sexy I could deal with. Sexy is like a real-life porno that gets my dick hard. But cute? Cute isn’t about sex. Cute is friendship and respect and other shit I’m not ready to vocalize.

  But what the fuck is the Chief talking about? I raise my brows and wait for her to explain. Her eyes land on me, and she licks her lips and then sucks the filling off her fingers. Grinning with her mouth full is cute. Sucking shit off her fingers is sexy as fuck. Cute I want to take to a movie. Sexy I want to bend over the hood of the truck and fuck senseless.

  “I’m your new house watch volunteer until summer’s end,” she says and stands from the couch. I follow her lead, ready to walk her out but not ready to see her go. We walk to the landing and then head down the stairs to the second floor. It’s bad enough I have her at my parents’ house all the time, but now she’s going to be in my house, with my guys? Chief had mentioned that due to budget cuts we would have to get a volunteer in here to watch the desk, but I thought it would be someone at least trained in minimal emergency response tactics. Maybe even, you know, be able to do CPR.

  “You got a fire pole in this place?” she asks, slowing at the second-floor landing and shamelessly looking around. Her question catches me off guard, but does what I need it to—it distracts me from figuring out how I’m going to keep my shit straight with her here all the time.

  “Yeah, but you can’t slide down it. House policy.” I place my hand on her back in an effort to encourage her on down the stairs. She takes the hint, and we make our way to the first floor and to the front pedestrian entrance.

  “We’ll see,” she mumbles so quietly that I almost miss it.

  “Thanks for the cannoli.” I shove my hands in my pockets.

  She turns around, brows drawn together, and folds her arms over her chest. “Jameson Hayes, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t want me sliding down your pole.”

  I do my best to keep my jaw off the floor, but it doesn’t do much good. Clearing my throat, I cough into my hand and then rub the back of my neck. She’s doing just about everything she can muster to push me over the edge. Not that she has to push much.

  “Anyway,” she says, “if you have to bring Miss Cranky Pants, you can. But if you happen to be flying solo on Saturday, that’d be cool, too.”

  Girlfriend, right. I keep fucking forgetting about her.

  “Miss Cranky Pants?”

  “Yeah, she always looks cranky.”

  I smile, but only for a moment before it falls.

  “Later, Lulu,” I say, but it’s quiet. I doubt she hears me.

  Mel’s off with a wave, and I’m left standing in the open doorway feeling nothing but frustration.

  Chapter 5

  Jameson

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, notifying me that I have a message. I pull it out and take a deep breath before checking the screen. If it’s Lydia asking me when I’m coming home one more time, I might throw the fucking thing down a sewer grate. I like fucking as much as the next guy, but this is getting ridiculous. And boring. There was a time when I never thought I’d get tired of Lydia’s pussy, but it’s happened. I mean, I’ve been tired of her for a while, but her pussy is different. Pussy in general is different. Isn’t it?

  “Something wrong?” Hennessey asks from across the garage bay. I open my mouth to ask him if we’re on the same page—that fucking a chick shouldn’t get old even if her personality has—but if I say it, then it becomes the truth, and I’m not ready for that yet. We’re over—I just have to figure out how to go about ending it. Hennessey’s a Hayes and he has a big mouth. Talking to one sibling about my crumbling relationship is one thing, but the second one of my siblings knows, they all know, and fuck that. So I look down at the screen and relax when I see Mel’s name and not Lydia’s. And that’s a few levels of fucked-up.

  QUESTION, the text reads.

  ANSWER, I reply. And I’m smiling like a fucking fool.

  “Guess not,” H says as he walks by and elbows me in my ribs. He leans over my shoulder to read the screen, but I shove it back in my pocket just as it vibrates. He keeps walking and whistles as he says, “Tell Lyd I say hi.” Once he’s far enough away, I pull my phone back out and check the newest message that’s come through.

  HOW MUCH DO YOU LIKE ME?

  I pause and stare at the screen for so long that three new messages come through. Yeah, because that’s a question I can answer truthfully without being a real bastard.

  CRAP. I MADE THAT AWKWARD.

  ME+YOU+MOVIE=FUN

  DON’T MAKE ME BEG.

  I mentally answer all of her texts with the truth instead of typing them out. I like you more than I should. I like you enough to picture you when I’m fucking my girlfriend. I like you’re awkward. A lot. You’re always fun. Even when I’m only watching you and not getting to be part of the fun. The image of you begging gives me a semi.

  Another text comes in, but this one isn’t from Mel. The alert bar at the top of my screen reads LYD. Without switching message threads, I start typing.

  OK, I respond to Mel. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, one that scares me more than I’d like to admit. I don’t even know what Lydia has to say, but I don’t really care to. She’s been all over my dick the last few weeks. Jameson Junior needs a vacation. It’s just so damn hard to picture Mel with Lydia making so much noise.

  FAB. I’LL ORDER PIZZA. BRING POPCORN.

  Mel and I hash out the details. She suggests I arrive at six, but I work until seven, so we make it for seven-thirty. I kind of thought she meant a movie at a theater, not at her house. But I agreed, and even if this is a bad idea, I still want to see her. Maybe it’s because it is a bad idea that I want to go. I’m looking for an out, but I know deep down that I should just be getting out regardless of how or what happens to Lydia when I do.

  I check Lydia’s text and do my best to make my apology seem genuine that I’m going to be missing the surprise she apparently has planned for me. It’s not a surprise, really. The emoji she included didn’t leave much to the imagination.

  SORRY. OVERTIME. HOME LATE.

  LOVE U, her text reads.

  I don’t respond.

  I push through the last few hours of work and make my way to the bodega around the corner from the R where I
pick up a bag of popcorn and then hop on the subway to the park, where I hop off and walk the rest of the way. Every other block I pass I become more and more convinced that this is a bad idea. I like Mel—too much—and hanging out with her is going to make it even worse. Maybe there will be other people there. Not that I want other people there, but it would make it easier to keep myself in check if we have an audience. On the blocks I’m not convinced this is a terrible idea, I’m amping myself up to get her alone. I don’t forget about Lydia, and I don’t plan on doing anything. I just want to be around Mel and get to know her better than I already do. I think I know enough about her to know that I’d rather it be her that I come home to at night, but not enough to break up with Lydia and move back in with my parents for the next nine months. Because that’s what that would look like—and I’m not that much of a loser. I’d go live with Jack, but he’s got my niece, Hope, and no extra bedrooms. Hennessey’s renting a room from a guy in another house, and their plumbing sucks. Royal still lives with our parents, and the rest of the people I know are acquaintances rather than friends. I need more friends. Plus, Mel deserves a man who can do more for her than I can right now. There’s nothing I can offer her that she doesn’t already have.

  Mel’s building has a door man—a fucking door man—who is nice but makes a point to tell me to be good to his girl. The fuck? Is there anybody Mel isn’t friends with in this city? The lobby and elevators are done up with intricate wood detailing. It’s a classic Upper West Side building that costs some serious coin to live in. I know this because Lydia likes to torture herself with things she can’t have. She’s delusional enough to look at the Upper West Side but not outright batshit and hasn’t started shopping the Upper East Side where the prices are even more ridiculous.

  The elevator stops on sixteen. On the opposite wall is a glass placard that indicates Unit A is to the right. Everything about this building is luxurious in an understated way. The wood detailing, fine marble flooring, and spotless surfaces tell the story of how well cared-for the place is. It’s the kind of care and attention that costs money. I’ve never lived in anything this nice—never cared to, either—but Lydia has always wanted something better than I can give her.